


Desolation

by Paranormality



Category: BioShock
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Essentially Bioshock:Rapture until they get to the city and I can be original
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6553888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paranormality/pseuds/Paranormality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like most stories, this one begins with a man; in this particular instance, a man, a lighthouse, and a dream of Utopia beneath the sea.<br/>Far off and miles below the surface of the North Atlantic ocean, that Utopia slowly took shape. With a man's will and an army of workers behind him, Andrew Ryan constructed what was to be the perfect society: Rapture.<br/>For a short while, Rapture was the dream city that its founder had intended it to be -  a way to escape from the parasites on the increasingly corrupted surface world. But unfortunately, a few power-hungry figures found footholds in Rapture and slowly, Ryan's dream began to fall.<br/>Among the chaos of the city, Phineas Hartley and Harvey Gunter lived near-opposite lives as a star actor and a hired gun. As madness begins to corrupt Rapture, they are thrown into each other's lives as the both of them must fight for their lives, dodging death at every turn. With little hope of escaping Ryan's failed ambition, they are forced to work together to survive, or just wind up another empty monster roaming Rapture's halls.</p><p>Bioshock is property of 2K<br/>Bioshock: Rapture is property of John Shirley</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

Only the second week on the job, and Phineas Gale Hartley was already raring to leave.

He sighed, agitated, leaning against the countertop of the bar he was currently in the process of cleaning. His dirtied work shirt was probably reversing the effects of his work, but at this point, it didn’t do much to deter him. He drew his hand across his forehead, then letting it slacken to his side as he faced the beige-painted wall opposite the register, eyes tracing the age-old stains and woven, dirt-cheap wallpaper. This job, he was positive, was slowly driving him mad.

Being a bartender in a beat-up old pub was far from his first choice of employment upon his first arrival in New York, something more along the lines of theatre taking the top spot of his expectations. Unfortunately, something his childhood spent helping his family run the store in Louisiana had failed to prepare him for was the hardships of city life and the harsh reality that one’s aspirations amount to nothing without exponential luck.  Regardless, the first week of his new life was spent scouring newspapers for some theatre that was hiring, despite the jeering voices of his peers assuring his failure. He’d even settle for backstage work, he decided, hoping to eventually work his way up to a full-fledged actor with enough effort. Eventually, he began to quickly sink into a steady decline of funds, which signaled that perhaps he should put his dreams aside momentarily for the sake of his continued housing. After some more searching - this time with a wider field - he finally landed in a quaint little bar in the dockside area of the city - "The Clanger," it was called. It wasn't the cleanest establishment nor the most well-managed, but he took the job nevertheless. The food wasn’t much to speak of, but when the beer bell went a-tolling, the beer lovers came a-running. Phineas was never one for alcohol himself, but even he had to admit that home brewing was quite a successful method of turning a beat-up old tavern into a cash cow.

"Oi!" Came the disgruntled voice of another sailor from behind the bar. "'Nother round over 'ere!" Phineas turned, seeing the same man that had been hanging around ever since the crab season died down. A middle-aged man, by the looks of it, but the years of work at sea had added years to his appearance. Some scrubby beginnings of a beard were present on his face, as well as some smudges of dirt around his tired eyes. Always seemed to be in a fight, that one. Tobacco stained his hands, one of which was clutching the handle of a metal tankard resting shakily on the unsturdy table. A stocky woman sat to the left of him, expression distant and drunk as her mouth flapped open and closed. She was speaking, Phineas assumed, but despite her apparent efforts, the only noise she was emitting seemed to be a low pitched warbling.

"Coming right up, Sir." Phineas told him, holding his tongue from replacing 'sir' with more apt descriptions. He took the tankard from the man's hand and swept over to the keg, filled it, and returned it to him. The man offered a grunt in thanks and turned back to the woman, who appeared to be trying to flirt but at this point would only attract a rather delusional whale.

Phineas rolled his eyes as soon as the man turned his back, frowning forward in dry amusement as he returned to the cash register, counting sums to pass the time. It was simultaneously a way to waste his shift and a method of preventing any nimble-fingered thief from eyeing the register. He'd probably be to blame if the worst came to pass.

Something shattered from the back room, muffled by the wooden door standing in between him and the space beyond. Fueled by curiosity rather than suspicion, approached the door, placing an ear against it to listen to the conversation going on behind it.

"Merton?" Said a voice that he didn't recognize. "Get outta my bar."

"Whatta hell you mean,  _ your _ bar?" Came the voice of his boss.

"I'm the owner, ain't I?" The first voice replied, a sly yet knowing tone present within it. "As of tonight, anyhow." Somehow, the voice made him unsteady. That was really saying something, considering the fact that he'd heard all sorts of folk enter the bar under his watch. This one, though, was different somehow. It was cunning, slick, carrying a thick Bronx accent and a heavy sense of trust in his own abilities. Not quite arrogance, but that was there too. It was most definitely someone who he didn't want to cross.

"Whatta hell you mean you're the  _ owner, _ Gorland?" Merton snapped, sounding slightly tipsy. He rarely wasn't, these days.

"You know any expressions besides 'whatta hell?' You're about to sign this bar over to me, is whatta hell. " Said the voice addressed as Gorland smoothly. There was a shuffling of papers before he spoke again. "That look familiar? You signed it."

There was a brief moment of what Phineas reckoned was slack-jawed silence. "That was you?" He stammered. He was trying to sound angry, but there was surprise clearly evident. "Hudson Loans? Nobody told me that was—"

"A loan is a loan," Said Gorland, his footsteps suggesting that he was moving around the table to stand over Merton. "What I seem to recall is you were drunk when you signed it. Needed some money to pay off your gambling vig. A big vig it was too, Merton!"

Phineas would have groaned, had it not been for the requirement of stealth. Merton had a penchant for gambling, and with that came the need to take out loans from the wrong people. In the mind of Merton, stooping below the law was better than losing big.

"You were there that night? I don't remember—"

"You remember getting the money, don't you?"

"It—it don't count if I was drunk!"

"Merton, if there was no business done drunk in this town, half its business wouldn't get done."

"I think you put something in my drink, that's what I think; the next day I felt—"

"Stop whining; you cashed the check, didn't you? You got the loan, couldn't pay the interest, time's up—now this place is mine! It's all there in black and white! This dump was your collateral!"

"Look, Mr. Gorland..." Merton sighed, shakily, the wooden floorboards groaning in protest as he shifted his weight nervously. "Don't think I disrespect you. I know you've-" A loud bumping of the desk cut him off, as evidently someone had run into it, preventing Phineas from hearing his full reply. "But you can't just take a man's  _ bidness _ ..."

"No? My attorneys can. They'll come after you hammer and tongs, pal." Phineas could almost envision the mischievous grin in his voice. "Hammer, Tongs, and Klein, attorneys at law!"

Merton sighed, having given in under the pressure of law.  _ That was a first, _ thought Phineas dryly. "Okay, okay, whatta ya want from me?"

"Not what I want—what I'm taking. I told you, I want the bar. I own a bookkeeping operation. I own a drugstore. But—I don't have a bar! And I like The Clanger. Lots of dirt on the fights, what with the boxin' setup and all. Might be useful ... Now you call that fatass bartender and scruffy little waiter boy of yours in here, tell him they've gotta new boss..."

Taking the opportunity to leave, Phineas shuffled quickly out of the back area and into the warmly lit bar itself. Answering another slurred call for another round, he refilled a few mugs behind the countertop before he heard the door open and shut behind him. He turned slightly, watching Merton, Gorland, and another man he wasn't familiar with step into the dining area. Merton was as he always was: brown turtleneck sweater blotted with stains from who-knows-where, his signature worn-down bowler hat placed lopsidedly on his head. Phineas had always thought that he looked like a turtle, and if the whispering around the bar served correct, the opinion wasn’t exclusively his.

This Gorland figure was something else. His canny brown eyes scanned the room, squinted as they assessed the area with smooth and dangerous intelligence. His slick grey suit was frayed, sure, but the way he carried himself still conveyed a transparent aura of shrewd authority. His bald head reflected the lamplights on the ceiling, his arms crossed with a pompous smirk as he leaned on his left foot. This man was clearly a force to be reckoned with.

Phineas regarded him, now understanding why Merton so quickly backed down. Still, the best way to deal with an enemy is to align yourself with him, so Phineas thought it best to keep his dislike to himself. Gorland strode into the bar, weaving through the tables and abandoned chairs strewn about the floor until he leaned against the countertop.

"Hey," He called out, raising his voice an octave to gain the attention of both Phineas and the other bartender he’d been working with’s attention. "C'mere."

The bartender glanced to Merton, who had positioned himself in the corner of the room. Merton nodded gruffly, avoiding eye contact with the both of them. He seemed irked, if anything. The bartender approached Gorland, Phineas following suit.

"What d'you want?" The bartender asked boredly. 

Gorland grinned. "You, my friends, are under new management."


	2. II

After Gorland’s takeover, work was uncomfortable for a long while, but everything soon seemed to settle back into its usual monotony. Gorland was a laissez-faire sort of boss, and seemed to be mysteriously absent whenever there was a task that required physical engagement and/or actual effort. Phineas was smaller than the bartender-who's-name-he-couldn't-be bothered-to-learn and thus was most often made to deal with the more burdensome work. He always had a fear scratching at the back of his mind that the other bartender would break his arm if he refused to acquiesce, and despite the fact that he never went so far as to threaten him, paranoia prevented him from chancing it by way of refusal.

It was later than usual by the time The Clanger had settled down into its nightly routine on the evening that Phineas was meant to attend his first real theatre play. He had happened upon the opportunity purely by chance, which was a pleasant departure from his bad luck thus far. There was always a corkboard newsboard in the lobby of the building that housed his apartment that the residents where the landlord would place reminders and newspaper clippings that she’d deemed important. They were usually of little consequence for Phineas, consisting mostly of offers to work as a housekeep for whoever would pay the right price and reminders to certain residents to turn in their rent if they couldn’t be found to speak with in person. Phineas had never paid much attention in the first place, giving is a fleeting glance at the most as he went upstairs, but one particular poster tacked to the cork caught his attention several nights ago.

“COME FOR A NIGHT OF ADVENTURE AND EXCITEMENT!” Screamed the poster, words blared in a font far less than subtle. “‘WITNESS A NEW ADAPTATION OF _ ‘PIRATES OF PENZANCE’  _  BY SANDER COHEN!” The backdrop was painted as if to be a weathered map of sorts, a single seemingly ill-fated pirate bursting through the center with a cutlass in his mouth, an expression of confusion and terror on his face. Several other people whom Phineas could only assume were the other characters peered on from behind him, one going so far as to jab their sword through the parchment. And then there was that name - “Sander Cohen.” He reckoned that the bloke must be important in some right, since his name was nearly as large as the title on the poster’s limited space.

Phineas looked the advertisement up and down, eyes tracing the ornate ebony lettering fringed with silver. There was nothing to distinguish it from any other play that might be in production in New York at the moment, but something about the simple piece of glossy paper compelled him to reach up, take the pins from its corners, and bring it upstairs with him to his room. Perhaps it was this same thing which, later that evening, drove him to pool together whatever meagre earnings he had saved at this point and purchase a single ticket to a friday night showing.

It wasn’t quite as if he regretted the decision, but there was a seed of bewilderment planted somewhere in his mind regarding what exactly it was about the rather plain advertisement that attracted his attention to a degree sufficient for him to actually procure a ticket. He mulled the thought over throughout the night and far into the following morning, listening to his thoughts yammer on as he worked slowly through the pile of dishes towering in the sink. Running warm water over the final glass, Phineas pulled the towel off of its hangar and began to dry it out, placing it in the cupboard. Returning the towel to its usual spot, he pushed the kitchen doors open and stepped into the evening air of the pub. The stars hung low in the sky outside the greasy window, outlined by the vast expanse of black that seemed to stretch on for eternity past the wharf. Chilled breezes wafted in from the slightly ajar door, ruffling his hair and snaking past his face. He walked over to and closed the door so as to keep the heat inside, the bell above it jingling faintly. Had he not been working, he might have enjoyed the still tranquility of the wharf - this hour was as quiet as the streets get what with the trucks thundering past and boats setting off all other hours of the day. At this time, though, it was too late to get any real work done and too early for a new day, leaving only him, Gorland, and a few other patrons alone in the bar.

"...If I tip you, it's because I'm a good citizen. No other reason. Anything special going on?" Speaking of Gorland, there his voice was now.

Gorland stood leaning against the bar facing a well-dressed man in his late thirties. Gorland’s tone had quieted significantly from his usually garish volume, implying secrecy between them. Phineas quickly began wiping down the bar to appear as if he wasn’t paying attention, looking momentarily back to their conversation every so often. Gorland and the Man watched him for a moment, their eyes condemning him with wariness from a distance. They looked away, content that he wasn't snooping, and resumed the conversation.

"Waiter boy," Offered Gorland by way of explanation. "Came here from Louisiana awhile ago. Merton hired him ‘fore I showed up. Anyways, catch wind of anything lately...?"

The man nodded in understanding, gripping the glass of bourbon in his hand. "You hear any-thing about some kind of big, secret project happening down at the docks? Maybe bankrolled by Andrew Ryan? North Atlantic project? Mil-lions of bucks flowing out to sea...?" He had an odd accent about him, one that even Phineas with his weeks of experience with drunken sailors from anywhere and everywhere couldn’t place. 

"Nah," Gorland replied dismissively, feining uninterest. Despite his effort, something flashed in his eyes at the name of  Andrew Ryan.  “I hear anything, Voss, I'll tell you. What kinda deal's he up to?"

The g-man, Voss, seemed to get slightly uncomfortable, shifting slightly in his seat. "That's something we don't... Something you don't need to know."

Gorland suddenly straightened, stretching with a casual look. "You're killing my back, here, with this. Listen, I gotta make it look like ... you know." He flicked his eyes between the other tables and Voss.

Voss gave a slight nod, and silent communications flitted between them. In an instant, Gorland's entire demeanor changed, shifting from chummy conversation to enraged feud within moments. "Listen, flatfoot!" He shouted. "You won't find out anything from me! Now charge me with something or buzz outta my place!"

The argument was met with the remaining patrons nodding in drunken absence. Voss shrugged, not seeming deterred by Gorland’s outburst. "You better watch your step, Gorland!" He threatened before briskly pulling the door open and shut behind him.

Gorland stared on for a little while after he left, deep in thought. A grin snuck across his face as he leaned against the wall, eyes flicking about as if creating and discarding plans. Phineas took the opportunity to leave the area, entering the main seating area and prying a tankard from some passed-out customer’s hand. Diligently continuing his rounds, he mused over the conversation that just unfolded before him. It was important in some right - he knew that much - but exactly why still escaped him.

The clock on the wall ticked on, most of the patrons trickling out as night dragged forwards. Eventually, only Gorland, Phineas, and a single passed out woman remained. Phineas began his nightly cleaning duties, the other bartender having left hours before. Gorland began speaking with the woman, who was clearly very upset about something. Drunken tears streaked her face as her hair fell like a mop over her face. Gorland slid her another drink, which Phineas had half a mind to intercept if it weren’t so close to closing. He didn’t want a talking-to at this time of night, especially due to the performance he was supposed to see in approximately an hour.

“Boss?” He asked during a break in Gorland and the woman’s “conversation.” 

Gorland looked up to match his gaze. “Yeah, what?” He replied impatiently.

Phineas hesitated. “I’m... Going to start getting ready to head home. Anything else I need to do for the night?”

Gorland frowned and thought for a second. “Nah, you can go. I’ll lock up once she wraps up here.”

Phineas gave a nod. “Thank you, sir.”

Gorland waved a hand dismissively.

The blonde bartender gathered up his things from the back, scooping whatever belongings he’d thought to bring with him into his shoulderbag. Tugging it over his arm, he left the kitchen for the final time that day and, with a final glance back, walked out of the bar and into the city beyond.


End file.
